Nagasaki Blues Excerpt

Excerpt from ‘Shadow of a Doubt’

The craft glides liquid through black space – heavy metallic gas coming in through breathing tube, fills the lungs with soupy influenza – hard to get it all out sometimes, comes sliding down the throat and nestles in the inner tubes. Been out here for long time now – days and weeks in search for word dust ovens (burning blue in crablike forgotten nebula). Lights and dials in crystal array spark up in sequence on the control display – approaching liminal space – heavy metallic gas pumps through the craft and sedates the back brain – my partner shuts down in weighty emerald miasma, clinging skin of breathing aparatus slowly up and down. Message through on the hailing frequency – alien textual disease – where does such a thing come from? Dead space from here on out – days and weeks – not a word from EarthSphere or any of the colonies – just me and my partner in deep dead space taking readings and breathing heavy on metallic gas (green eyes light up at the sound of it – shuts down in slow up and down of breathing apparatus).

Alien textual disease comes in on the hailing frequency – crystal red light shines through the control display and cuts through translucent skin of my partner shimmering in heavy metallic shutdown. Lose control of navigation systems and all automatic life support routines (shit in the bag on command, breathe miasmic emerald gas when the pump tells us to) – the kick inside kept on sustainable wavelength, succumbs to external influence and pumps heavy metallic gas through the craft, sedating the back brain. Leads on through liquid space – cold light of stars pinpointing through the viewscreen and losing our position in vast sea of squid-ink shot out in panic and chaos. Where does such a thing come from? Leads on through liquid space to vast blue of crablike nebula surrounding translucent skin of heavy metallic gas and dials and lights sparking up in crystal succession. Alien textual disease in the navigation system – word dust falling on all hailing frequencies and leading down to inhabited space – not a thing for it, shut down in heavy metallic gas slowly up and down in clinging skin of the breathing apparatus.

Wake up on crablike planet of green sky and heavy metallic gas filling the lungs with soupy liquid influenza (hard to get it all out). My partner blinks stupid and fishlike in strange alien resonance – grows a set of gills and leaps into miasmic green of nearby pond. Clinging skin of breathing apparatus goes slowly up and down, eating up inert gas of atmosphere and feeding back into pressurised aqualung. Where does such a thing come from? Control lines on crablike planet of green sky and heavy metallic gas – hear the voice come through on the radio frequency, muttered and effluvious, but comes knocking on the back brain and making all presence known. Word dust ovens burning blue in green sky of crablike planet – alien textual disease taking up the arrangement and burning bright fire with crystal array and all manner of speech sounds (comes knocking on the back brain). Have to find my way – gather samples and send report back to EarthSphere for reintegration and reprocessing – dead space from here on in.

Green sky and heavy metallic atmosphere of crablike planet – I grow gills, purple in translucent skin, shed slow up and down clinging film of breathing apparatus – leads up to word dust ovens burning blue across a neon sky. Crystal array of lights and dials sparks into life and transmits across all known frequencies – alien textual disease. Shadow of a doubt – where does such a thing come from? What makes report back to EarthSphere on the hailing frequencies of alien textual disease? Crablike and blue the word ovens burn and float word dust down through heavy metallic atmosphere – burn the lungs in forceful weight of charred thought and alien textual disease – leap into the nearest pond, green and thick against my translucent shadow skin. Slowly up and down in heavy breathing green water of crab planet (blue ovens burning word dust in neon night) – meet my partner and meld into a single being, webbed fingers and gills flapping in translucent skin. Moist orifice merging into long webbed fingers – the crystal inside sparks up in heavy succession – become single fishlike, resonant creature shifting skin in neon green of crab planet waters. Word dust ovens burn all plant matter and boil the lakes, leaving only dry husk of planet, liquid through dark space and moving on down to EarthSphere – Director Massimo pulls up the viewscreen and sends down the order – everything dead space from here on out.


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Book Review

Review: The Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead translated by R O Faulkner

Collection of spells for the well to do Egyptian ensuring lasting life after death in the company of the gods. Brought forth admirably into modern English by Faulkner, thing reads well and prose is easily understood. Of course, spells themselves not so easily understood- opaque content and roundabout reference to gods and goings on, best suited to the knowing student of Egyptian classics.

Does come with glossary to illuminate on terms of reference – but still leaves reader in dark about great many things. Murky spells remind of more esoteric writings of Crowley (think Book of the Law) – difficult to grasp the aim at times, but still let the thing wash over you in waves of magic beauty. Book to be read in this measure, unless serious student – don’t look too hard to delve into intricacies, be content with vague impression of coming forth by day.

Also featured: many and varied illustrations of the scrolls and spells in colour and black and white. Interesting additions with good captioning- welcome break from wall of text as well.

Summary: novel curiosity bathed deep in obscurity. Not so esoteric as to be useless to any but dedicated student of Egyptian Arts, but lack of context detracts from enjoyment and ability to extract value going forwards.

The Jagged Spiral Excerpts

The Jagged Spiral Excerpt: Cabinet Battle and Medical Mambo

Can’t breath for the stink of cabinet ministers, engaged in some sort of debate battle – expensive oils, stripped down and neat for the cameras, brandishing crotches all round. Havoc reigns victorious – stab to the spleen of the incumbent minister for transport and main roads – weakness in the right leg, trick knee don’t you know – let the bastard make the first move, make him say ‘uncle’. Crowd of onlookers cheers them on with a thick and sticky mucous – politics is a dangerous game in more ways than one. Journalists taking bets on the action report back furiously to headquarters trying to influence the outcome in their favour through an all out assault of bad press coverage. No time for this now – got to get to that curtain – I am on a mission damnit, man of action – things are happening with the flow of governmental money which I must investigate, that much is clear – just waiting for the penny to drop – move like a slug.

Bookkeepers convey and transfer money in frantic haste, twirl large moustache and snap briefcase – the thing is done on a diagram on all sides around the fight – move with extreme caution. Thin crablike substance coating the action – blue men of the Kalahari move on all sides circulating petitions and gathering up lawyers for contractual finagling (party functions being all legal and above board for the benefit of public scrutiny). The crowd is impossible to penetrate – thick and viscous river – each time a body moves, another flows in to fill its place, filling up the airwaves – this must be what it’s like in the ocean. Try to extricate myself from the chaotic rush of the place – move always towards the blue curtain. Freeze momentarily – light a cigarette and smoke through the human haze. Rough the crowds now – violent outbursts here and there – I’ll make my way with or without governmental support – stamping on toes, maybe take a shin – people going out of my way. I am determined, by god, see what’s behind that curtain – got to get to the bottom of this.

Shepherd shaking hands all over – orgy of insects mating in handshakes all around –everyone smokes complacently on friendly terms. These are not the usual donor specimens, all afflicted with some rare and horrible disease – deep spirits rising from communal vat – slick proboscis-like tube into awful alabaster mouth, nearly luminescent – eyes piercing and querying Calhoun. “…working on the formula… hoping to do away with need for this business of particular and, uh, painful procedures… the process is a simple one – spent a week once in the lab getting it up to scratch – but there are many complications … only able to bring about the information through regular injections of orgone.” The rich folk, hanging on his every word, whir and beep through their whispering machines – those that can, jibber excitedly. Doctor Steinway in billowing white coat – introduced with much fanfare – appears in the blue light, goes about the room pinning down the individuals and giving them a top-up of some effluvious substance (long shot in the neck through emerald syringe). Dark haired fuck leans back, grins and chuckles, Shepherd smiles her shiteating grin and receives a shot – shows her pearly whites in the glows and glimmers of a practiced laugh, looks great for the cameras. Calhoun comes over – trio makes good for the purpose, laughs and smiles all round. Shepherd gears up the speech centres – flickers a series of images to the assembly – common townsfolk, a hanged man, hurried confusion – all manner of pollution – wavelength like this will be able to continue on with the parliamentary kick without the need for lengthy talking over the top of one another, get the message through and through in a series of simple images on any given topic. The rich folk get the message, start on about tax concessions for chromium magnates and other policy briefs, all writing cheques for the campaign – money juices extracted through a long and flexible tube of indeterminate substance. Dark haired man (blue eyes, fishlike appearance in the projection light) laughs again from the proceedings – unclear impression on the donors – security guards hunch their shoulders around these medical marvels as they puff up their chests and glow with their infusion kick – glimmering new life into the wracked and wretched bodies, nearly springing forth spry from their corrective machines. Calhoun is in with the big dogs with this whole medical angle – but what is he getting at? What is the purpose behind all this? Begin to fade out in the blue light – no time for this now – All this medical mumbo-jumbo is going over my head, but all these people are on the nod (eyes down to their bleak shoes like they hold the great secret) on a deep and spiritual level – no clear element of code at work here, but still the thing just doesn’t make sense – got to stay rooted in this plane – just try to keep calm, pick up on patterns and pertinent intel.

Back to the matter at hand – Doctor Steinway retreats into a dark corner of the venue, fades out into blue dust and ether – translucent vibrating skin. Feel like a lobster in a tank at some high end restaurant – soon all eyes will be on me and all the psychic energy and infusion cocktail jive will turn to corporal punishment for interlopers – beat my brains out on establishment stone. Unclear what the best way out of such a situation is – I am not much for fighting (not built for such activities), but sometimes things leave you with no other option – assess for alternatives, turn on a dime and exit the chamber – coward’s approach, but no way to take these motherfuckers, no telling what sort of violence they are capable of – also retinue of security guards to contend with, and there’s nothing more vicious than a security guard on a beating trip (go for the eyes, first things first, with varied weapons and warlike devices condemned by international treaty and banned by regular police enforcement but somehow still easily obtainable through mail order catalogue for the enthusiastic weekend hobbyist playing out the big uniform fantasy).


Taken from Chapter II – The Convention

Book Review

Review: Nostromo by Joseph Conrad

Long-winded tale of avarice, greed, love, and South American revolution Nostromo tells story of cast of immigrant settlers in Costaguana upheaval. Building up of profitable silver mine embroiled in dubious and dangerous affairs of state, greed for money, power, and material goods, and finally story of love between persons unable to connect due to aforementioned avarice.

Thing is long and tedious at times, throwing words like solid wall of impenetrable information – not an easy read. Sometimes, however, prose shines through with glimmering beauty in description of landscape or personage. Other times grows dull and dense, brings on the literary sleep causes paragraph to skim by undetected.

Story also proceeds in haphazard fashion, told largely in character sketch and description thing jumps from point to point in development of coherent narrative themes (love angle, heavy theme of book, introduced only in last few chapters). Hard to incur full interest at times. Details not useful in building themes weigh the thing down in tedium.

Healthy distrust and disdain for political institutions and insight into barabarism of power hungry revolutionary fervour. Irksome privileging of whiteness and certain scorn for native populations deadens political angle. Can’t get message through when bound up in European arrogance.

Overall, accomplished piece of fiction but not rewarding as other Conrad or classics. Better time spent in Lord Jim for Conrad introduction. Would I add to curriculum? Not my first choice, but merit can be found for meticulous and thoughtful reader if one so chooses.

Nagasaki Blues Excerpt

Viral Incursion into Interpersonal Affairs

1932 – December frost mornings on radio frequency jive, Sukhodrev hands down decree through high ranking interpreter (speaks in across all language lines, cuts through the meat) – any individual caught speaking alien language treated as new form of dissident and dealt with by security forces effective immediately (rustled off to the ovens for re-education – camp in on dry heat for days and weeks, barely speak any language at all when you emerge again – if you come out at all). Comes down on variety of Ubix platforms all sharing same tranceiver – crablike kind of forgotten nebula – designed specifically to transmit in local accents across all indigenous networks. Tranceiver targets orgone frequencies – blue emenation from orgasmic death pulse – reads internal cellular structure and subverts, repurposes for transmission reception. Virus acts on cellular lines – hits in with language kick and infects the cells for resequencing – all counted, by December, two-thousand-and-eighteen individuals infected with virus – vessels for alien information dissemination. Alien language rots the cortex – kills dead silence and renders victim insensible to sympatico vibrations – dry dust boys in bathing outhouse unable to speak to one another on normal channels – girls in pigtails dressing in absence of connective tissue between each other – all driven to crablike and nebulous, speak out in alien language for viral dissemination. Can’t have a thing like that when Sukhodrev is in office – man like that needs to have language running in on his own side – beat to the red drum – all viral incursions into interpersonal affairs strictly regulated by state legislature. Sukhodrev running no risks at this stage of his career – alien intervention, after all, risky business killed Kruschev and Breznhev went downhill after implantation device. Timely action on part of Sukhodrev nullifies threat in large part – alien virus gives way to homegrown Control mechanism – state sanctioned lanuage in red air, frequency along the dry dust boys in bathing outhouse – girls in pigtails dressing in beat of the red drum.

DE is born at this time (Direct Emantion) – spillage of alien language forms reproduction United States Family – slips under Soviet radar and grows in viral Control mechanism – United States Family in 1932 radio jive (dry dust in crablike outhouse, pigtails dressing in forgotten nebula). Under assumed name of Hans Schwedler – blue pulse of orgone frequency in orgasmic birth – alien virus and tranceiver brings DE into birth and United States Family. Relocates at age six into London Compound School of Languages – kills dead silence on all language lines, transmits on all accents and indigenous networks. Drafted in Krakau to SSPF magician batallion – language on the indigenous accent, blue orgone frequency of orgasmic cellular resequencing – crablike and dust dry in beating of the word drum – lives in sleeper cell readiness – crablike and dust dry in waiting for tranceiver transmission, breaks forth in December frost mornings hits in with langage kick and viral incursion into interpersonal affairs (no sympatico – no pasaran!). Career begins in earnest for Hans Schwedler – pressed into service as soldier in employ of Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) – keep on the ovens for days for weeks play out the Sukhodrev drum game to sleeper cell readiness – Hechendrev utters in famous dry dust morning (frost of United States radio, May 1945) “We will expose that man and bury him on the last day of summer”.

Conducts himself with grace and poise, DE finds himself nearly thirty years later in Canadian/Soviet summit on advantages of digitally simulated drug experience (funded in large part by Cutr institute of Kyoto and OSX intelligence –blue frequency of forgotten nebula). Sukhodrev present, of course, representing Soviet interests and Control line of word dust (beating the red drum in ovens days and weeks). On Canadian side, Chang Erwan, the architecture kid, – superb linguist, cuts in along all word lines, rumoured to be illegitimate son of Henry Kissinger conceived on blue orgasmic pulse through short stay in Bangkok – appears on behalf of heterogenous national interests. DE appears in esteemed interpretor, disguising identity by sleeping into skin of V Mikhaylovich – regurgitating well known feelings and idiomatic expression – red drum in dry frost morning to blue pulse of ovens – United States Family in London School of Soviet Languages (SSPF battalion in MFA employ) bridges divide between Soviet/Canadian heterogenous national interests. Officials admire abilities – drives in sleeper cell readiness to dry dust outhouse sympatico – political interests in admiration of abilities – connective tissue in national interests – becomes confidant of Alexei Krygin, man in Soviet nebula beating on word line cut for viral incursion – Control lines cut for red drum radio (strictly from State Legislature). Conclusion of summit Sukhodrev makes DE officer in Soviet Foreign Ministry at insistance of Krygin – beating red drum in sleeper cell readiness – cellular sequencing in dry dust format for word line experiments. Krygin – memory pre-World War II (Soviet reproduction jive on red drum radio) – explains to him nuances of viral word process – working on automatic typing machine, creates and disseminates viral speech sources, believes DE to be useful in bringing project to fruition. At this time, DE in blue orgamsic pulse begins to take first wife, Inha Okunevskaya – Institute of Foreign Reform, in nebulous sympatico (no pasaran!) crablike and infectious on cellular lines (relationships sometimes like this on professional lines – invade the cellular structure and rearrange to suit various needs like alien virus crablike blue of forgotten nebula).

DE presence and reproduction American upbringing instrumental in production of dissemination machine – October 7 in dry dust morning frost of red radio KTB device unveiled – musical device designed to bombard human beings with incoherent listening experience, open up to infiltration and viral contamination. Tests carried out in United Kingdom, London Compound School of Languages (blue frequency of word oven days and weeks) – DE quotes “inital sound chosen to create false sense of calm before issue commandments … easiest way we have found, tap into taurean subcortex of sound receiver system”. Test subjects display mixed results – OP Granville, the architecture kid, describes feeling of exposure as not unlike being stoned (highly possible, however, that Granville speaks under influence at time of questioning – digital reproduction of simulated drug experience) – another subject (prefers to remain anonymous – the architecture kid) likens experience to tube of toothpaste, nearly empty, squeezed until all extraneous thought extracted. Disagreement within production team leads to series of significant ideological splits – red drum beating in blue frequency, sleeper cell readiness in reproduction American Family morning – can’t have that when Sukhodrev is in office – blue ovens beating red dust dry over pigtails.

Frustrated by results of device and ministerial experience of production, DE scrambles all testing sequences and quits ministry – fading blue frequency of dry pigtail dressing in the ovens days and weeks – no sympatico, Soviet-reproduction-American-family – no pasaran! Abandons Schwedler name and departs EarthSphere – heavy human atmosphere in blue pulse of crablike nebula – takes up residence on Moon Base Alpha, forms secret cellular society along word lines cut through dry dust outhouse, Sons of Alpha in crablike emergence of sleeper cell readiness – alien viral incursion into interpersonal affairs. Remergence of DE and new project in production (automatic typing machine in blue pulse of pre-World War II memory, cut along word lines, rearrange the cellular structure) undeniable excitement in underground networks of crab nebula, blue drum beating in orgasmic death pulse soon joined by various radical geniuses. Departure, however, leads to notable cooling-off on Soviet-reproduction-American-family relations (professional lines – Institute of Foreign Reform beating to cold drum of dead silence in word device) – Moon Base Alpha placed under surveillance from all parties.


Short selection from ‘Word Dust Cinema on Oven Blue’ – brief taste for dear reader.


The Matter at Hand: A Report from the Desk of Inspector K

The matter at hand is a dangerous novel – The Jagged Spiral – violent, pornographic, exploitative – the thing, as yet unfinished, poses a great threat to our operations. Proceeds along the cut/up line, destroying usual Control routes by eliminating rational thought and substituting essence of the dream-time gimmick. Of course, names and faces have been changed to protect the innocent, but the matter still stands that in the wrong hands a book like this could get the whole spiral undone.

Attempts have been made to stop the production of this novel – usual lines of madness (sick mind syndrome brought to bare in full force of fading narcotic night) and the starvation-monotony routine. Both attempts have been roundly rejected by the host subject and work on the offensive article has continued unabated – more energectic remedies are indicated. Possible interception by Control Agents proper is likely scenario – bring Mr McDougall in on full-scale alchohol kick or other chemical agent as is reasonable under the circumstances – rudimentary experiments have been carried out along this line, but a larger investigation may bear surprising fruit. So far, subject manages to stay clean and sober – rejecting outside influence of bodily autonomy and resisting operations of Agent “Dark Spirit” – possibly living circumstances could be arranged to circumvent these problems (death of loved one perhaps – get in on the lifeline kick) and allow Agent to do the dirty work.

In any case, it is imperative that this work not be brought to completion and allowed to be disseminated along liminal or subliminal channels. Remedies for such an eventuality are being put in place, but best if these need not be used. Lingual stop is first line of defence – bog the thing down in the word gimmick, don’t let the people get the first glimmer of sense from it. This can be easily arranged – the word drug takes hold readily and renders most attempts at Control subversion insensible – innoculate the subjects against any and all viral incursions – and that’s what The Jagged Spiral is, virus on Control lines, infecting business as usual. Second, assimilation and reabsorption of material – don’t let the full weight of the thing fall. Control machine eats up the book and digests it into more palatable fodder – reader is none the wiser, perhaps even happier without the knowledge, either way thing stops dead in its tracks.

In summary, nothing short of total assault on The Jagged Spiral and Mr McDougall is warranted. Do not stop the presses – keep the machine running at any and all times in order to suppress the novel and keep Control order in tight formation.

Here the message becomes garbled – teletype machine begins eating paper and regurgitating message back out at random, order and sense is difficult to maintain. Officers E and L (crustaceous kind of forgotten nebula) leap up from their positions in panic – E shits on the floor, not knowing what else to do, L frantically hails all manner of superiors on whatever devices make themselves available – no discernable effect, dead air and word lines cut. Communications breakdown is a serious thing for agency like this – no shortage of word ever took hold in the office before – always had a clear idea of what was what and what the next move was going to be – got to get to the ovens before the thing is done, don’t let good material go to waste. (Known fact: offending material, once seized and neutralised, is placed within thought ovens for immediate incineration – ovens glow blue fire and are fed constantly with all manner of material from defective earth individuals – ovens leave thick ash of metallic taste, spreads out evenly onto Control media for reinstituion back on the earthsphere).

Teletype machine springs back into life:

The matter at hand is pornography proper – violent and exploitative – got to get the Control lines on alchol kick (other chemical agents as situation dictates) – Agent “Dark Spirit”. Bring madness to bare on subject – eat up the book and violent expulsion of repugnant material – all manner of lingual stop renders thing insensible, reader none the wiser.

Nothing short of all out assault – word virus along Control lines – innoculate the subjects against insensible – word drug in narcotic night. Death of a loved one – Agent Dark Spirit – on the madness kick – starvation in narcotic night monotony routine. Supress material at all costs. Assimilation of bodily autonomy and book like this on the autonomy gimmick – keep the machine running, dream-time gimmick – digest happier knowledge and more palatable readers into clean and sober kick– operation “Dark Spirit” – roundly rejected and keep the assualt on business as usual.

Glimmer of sense – bog down in word gimmick, render insensible – Agent Dark Spirit on innoculation kick. Tight formation – imperative not be completed in subversion – dream-time kick on cut/up lines. Agent Jagged Spiral violent and exploitative stop dead in its tracks. Mr Dark Spirit stop the presses – alcohol kick on narcotic night – renders insensible, viral incursion into business as usual. Infecting dream-time, clean and sober Agent McDougall supress Control machine – stop the presses – total assault on Dark Mr Spirit, render insensible, stops dead in its tracks.

Mr McDougall – Agent Dark Spirit – as yet unfinished rudimentary experiments in the wrong hands. The Jagged Spiral undone, bears surpising fruit – of course, names and faces have been changed to protect the innocent – suppress rational thought, eliminate the matter at hand. In any case, the names and influences are offensive – digest the book, sick fodder for mind in Control syndrome – innoculate the subject – innoculate the gimmick, dream-time for outside influence – get out on Control hands. Production of host subject – Control virus incursion along word lines – continues unabated. Suppress elimination of rational thought.

First line of defence – elimination of Control incursion – production of rational thought, eliminate matter at hand for dream-time narcotic night. Agent McDougall, on remedies for clean and sober night, renders insensible. Subliminal stop – substitute innoculation of readers, reabsorbed into dream-time gimmick, suppress Control hands. Spiral is innoculation against Control virus – cut into word lines – suppress rational thought. Keep the machine running at any and all times in dream-time kick (rudimentary experiments) – may bear surpising fruit!

Signed Inspector K

Agent “Dark Spirit”

renders insensible

Mr McDougall on cut/up kick


Message garbled – Officers E and L leap up from their positions into the blue ovens – thought incineration in immediate effect. Don’t let a thing like that go to waste. All manner of superiors shitting on the floor through word lines (cut – communication breakdown – serious thing for an office like this) – nothing else to do, offending material hails earthsphere on all available devices. Metallic taste of ovens in blue fire – neutralise Control communications – no shortage of dead air hails earthsphere in blue breakdown of offending material. Office breakdown in blue fire (oven incineration on thought lines cut) – breakdown of Control back on earthsphere, seized and neutralised.

The Jagged Spiral Excerpts

The Jagged Spiral Excerpt: Inauspicious Beginnings

It is a small set of rooms – sparsely furnished, but with items of good quality and taste. Some of the furnishings may be a little moth-eaten and burnt around their the edges yet, like its occupant, my apartment maintains and air of calm and class. This morning, however, sense of displacement. Disjointed from my usual place in the universal flow and contiuum I awake suddenly and without warning to an unusual odour. Permeates the air like an overabundance of cheap cologne, thick undertone of sulphur – sticks in the throat –coating the sides, thick and liquid – makes me gag.

In the bathroom – try to spit out the cloying stink, rinse my mouth thoroughly with cool running water from nickel-plated faucet. This smell, I am certain, is what the pope smells when he thinks of the devil’s asshole. What is this scent? Where did it come from? Inauspicious beginning to the proceedings, that much is for certain. Lay my head briefly against cold glass of mirror – remants of sleep dissolving, grey cobwebs catching thought and dripped in suplphuric acid – drift slowly into consciousness. Awake now, in the fullest sense of the word. The unusual scent remains, but not so powerful or overwhelming. Ability to think returning, I am able to move freely about my rooms.

First things first, I must dress myself. Select my suit – the brown one – well enough cut, though slightly worn at knees and elbows. Recall that it once hung better on me, but as I look in the mirror my thin form appears to shrink into the garment – insectoid shrinkage in fading morning cocoon – well, I suppose not all of us can crawl out of bed looking like Johnny Weismuller. Trousers jingle with reassuring sound of loose change, find full box of matches and a few intact cigarettes in one of the pockets. This will do just fine. Shirt – white, starched, but soft and slightly greasy from lying on the floor too long. No obvious odour besides comforting scent of tobacco (Marlboro flavour country – passport expired for twenty-one years), nevertheless, good reminder to make excursion to the laundromat. Tie and socks: rather plain affair – no man with a shred of self respect needs fancy socks. The presence of patterns and – god forbid – pictures, are a good indicator of poor character. Nothing good has ever come of a polka-dot. (It is worth noting, however, that a very particular case is presented by argyle socks: a man with argyle socks is not to dismissed out of hand, but he is certainly not to be trusted. I have not yet discovered the reason for this, but my belief is that the argyle sock functions in much the same way as the old school tie in some portions of the world – the diamond pattern covertly signals to the knowing passer-by a secret bond of class and kinship like some sort of ankle-bound masonic handshake. Advice: be very wary of any man who displays his socks too openly.)

Secondly, step over a small stack of books (hardcovers), around a taller column (cheap paperbacks for the most part), return to the bathroom to perform the usual sequence of daily ablutions. The process of waste elimination is largely uneventful. Next, wash face and hands with cold water, shave bristles from cheeks and neck – arrogant blue steel – rough wire on wire, remember to change the materials. This all proceeds routinely enough. Comb pulls with difficulty through hair – slick with accumulated Bryllcreem, makes a wet sound, like someone clearing their throat of a dark and unnatural mass – must remember to wash it soon. Unpleasant, yes – but not ominous. Taken altogether, nothing untoward or unsual occurs during the performance of these functions – scent has faded almost completely from my nostrils, ambient dead air in faint perception. Calmed and refreshed, thinking slows, returns to near normal pacing. Perhaps this day will not be so bad after all.

Briefly consider making list of things I need to do today when thought patterns are rudely interrupted. Voice in the air – rough and rasping like one of those deep sea fish with the lights on top. Presence of voice is not unusual in itself – television left running at any and all times, got to stay up to date with the worldly wonder, fill vacuous airspace with information transmission ready for immediate interception – but there is something different about this particular voice. Kind of voice that catches your attention in a crowded room and propositions you with unthinkably deviant sexual acts – kind of voice that belongs to the most sordid and most successful pimps. What’s worse, it addresses me directly in a way that the televison, as a rule, does not.

Agent… some time since we last spoke… remain in memory, files always on hand… ready for action should the sitation require…

Salivating tones reverberate around the tiled walls of my bathroom, seep into my pores like infected plasma. Clean calmness disintegrating rapidly – things are beginning to get weird. Pull a cigarette out of the soap-dish, attempt to ignore the voice and go about my morning routine in the usual sequence. Today’s paper is outside my front door – move to collect it, rack brain through multitudinous databanks – attempt to place voice in a known context. Familiar to my ears, but I simply cannot work out where I have heard it before – no known referant, no indentifiable characteristics. This troubles me as, being a generally unsociable man, I have only a small pool of people who might address me in this manner.

I do not intentionally isolate myself from other people – it is just that I prefer to be left to my own devices and do readily not concern myself with the affairs of others. Over the years a premonitory sense has developed (naturally and through various methods of training) – a burning red/white light – cerebral cortex, St Elmo’s fire – warns me of impending danger and strangeness. This psychic preeminence has helped me a great deal over the years, lends credence to theory that lives of other people are best left alone. Today early warning system is primed and in full force – intense shock deep within the skull shoots up the inside of the brain cavity and across the backs of both eyes like electrical fire – this is the greeting I receive when I pick up today’s newspaper from the floor in front of my apartment door. Political intrigue – the basest of human occupations. Coffee first – not ready for this sort of thing at this juncture. The smell, the voice, and now this prescient shock – these are all ill omens, I have a strong feeling this this day will be unusual in a way that I will not appreciate.

I do not keep coffee in my apartment. For that and all other sustenance I must venture forth into the city. Small café at the base of my building – greasy, stainless steel – serves my purposes well – the staff there know me and treat me with respect and dignity, something that is sorely lacking in this modern world. Usual routine: approach café through direct methods not long after sunrise to drink coffee and prepare for day’s operations – regular like laxative day at the old folks’ home. Before this ritual can take place, however, I must first deal with this blinding pain in my head. I keep a variety of shamanic herbs, high grade pharmaceuticals, and other medications in my bathroom cabinet. Most of these have been prescribed to me by a doctor of some standing – Dr Steinway, medical marvel and surgeon extraordinaire – trained in various warzones on rusty appendectomy kick, ether comes as naturally as scotch on the rocks – always trust a man like Steinway to get the job done. Select a few bottles at random, swallow two or three capsules, deposit a small pile of pink pills (crablike substance, sharp and crustaceous) loose in my pockets. Might come in handy later – you never know when you might need your medicine. Throw a small handful of cigarettes in with the pills, deposit the rest of the pack throughout my suit.

“Agent… ready for action… egregious Control operations in focus throughout current time… special set of skills required…”

That damn voice again. Buzzes through my bones as I search for my hat amongst a stack of magazines (stained, secondhand, obliquely pornographic in nature). I require caffeine – nicotine is only fighting half the battle. Stentorian click of soft adding machine – works of the inner monologue – voice blooms into recognisable format and nature – I have heard it before and I know that there is no point resisting the Agency when it comes for you. They have ways of making people conform, and it is only a matter of time before I will acquiesce – but perhaps I can have my goddamned cup of coffee before I become part of this mess. Sharp stab in the left eye again – no time to linger. I fix up my tie, grab my hat (battered grey-felt piece, came to me through uneasy means in travels of a former time), stomp out of the apartment – head straight for the stairwell, no time for surveillance of the neighbours (usual occupation in dangerous times) – I need my goddamned coffee. Grab the paper on the way out the door, glance at the front page – no headache this time, but cause can be isolated. The Election is on and Minister Shepherd – holder of some vague cabinet position and forerunning candidate – is on the front page. I have never liked that woman, but recently something about her has deeply unsettled me. No doubt that’s what this business with Agency is all about – Control has infiltrated the democratic process, and now I am being enlisted to help sort it out. Further information will follow. They know my habits well enough by now to rendezvous at the café – at least let a man wake up properly before you go throwing him into the middle of an espionage mission.


From Chapter I Making an Entrance

The Jagged Spiral Excerpts

The Jagged Spiral Excerpt: Stump Speech

Shepherd climbs onto the tallest tower of the structure – the stinking foreman trails behind, hefting his heavy club and proudly displaying a hobo’s head on a stick – blood pulses out from the remains of the carotid artery and brain oozes sluggishly down the pallid, hairy cheek. People begin to amass before the construction – cloistering in the side streets at first then slowly drifting into the muddy square – old time party faithful begin smiling, handing out the manifestos. Coolies, selected at random from the native population, draw kabbalistic sigils in the dirt with fresh gobbets of wet brain matter and mouth the ritualistic hymns – who knows how these bastards got mixed up in this thing, but I bet they are regretting it now.

A religious babbler, dressed in his dainty-whites, appears and addresses the assembled crowd over the loudspeaker. “Law and order – that’s the ticket – out of the dark recesses of our society we have produced the following specimen – no better than common shit in a bucket!” The crowd goes nuts for it. Screech and scuttle about the square – A man in a hooded black mask is produced from somewhere in back of the stage – a reeking miasma evaporates from his oily skin, hangs thickly in the already crowded air. Nothing less than a good old fashioned lynching. The smell of blood drives these baboons into a frenzy – begin furiously rubbing one another in pneumatic orgasmic pattern.

Calhoun slithers into view in the window of a nearby building – smiles slightly and breathes in deep of the rising stench of the nation’s misery juice. Once the process has begun, it is irreversible – the platform drops, the rope twangs and that sorry motherfucker’s neck snaps in the big instant death. Of course, even the neck snap and sever is not really an instant death – impulses jet down every fibre of the nervous system and for a brief moment the poor sap glows and gasps for air – blast of tepid piss comes dripping down the leg, hitting some of the closest onlookers in their upturned eyes. The crowd goes wild – Shepherd sits in the big seat – Calhoun grins, expanding his form with each inbreath of the aggregated blood-lust. I have seen this kind of thing before, sailing down the Yangtze river watching a local ladyboy rub the feet of an old Tibetan Lama over a series of unpleasantly slow and drawn out evenings. It is not a pretty sight to watch a motherfucker like that feed in his natural fashion – as the poor attendent fingered Lama’s bony toes and their levels of disgust rose, the Lama would swell up and bulge like a purple parasite, grunting and drooling like a self-satisfied toddler. Calhoun’s appearance at this moment is similar – his tongue snakes out and dribbles a thick, meaty juice down his chin, eyes bulge out with enormous pressure and his testicles swell to an obscene size. The whole display makes my stomach churn – if there was anything at all inside of me, I am sure that I would vomit it up at the sight of him.

The body is tossed down from the scaffold and torn apart by the ravenous crowd – everybody wants a piece of him. Shepherd waves to the crowd – adoration comes welling back up at her like she was the goddamned virgin mary. Small albino dog comes to lick the brain-mash off the bitumen – chased off by some freckle-faced cretin. “Bad dog!” he yells, flailing his limbs in the most menacing gestures he can muster – grabs handfuls of the stuff and offers it up to Shepherd on the stage like it was gumballs. These people are getting out of control – swaying back and forth and screaming, violent and nasty – once the poor fuck at the end of the rope has been devoured, they start turning on one another. The guards try to keep everyone separated, but there’s only so much they can do – and Calhoun sits up in his tower getting fatter and fatter.

This is the way of things – they came here for a ritual public execution, and Shepherd has given it to them. People love a bit of violence – it excites them spiritually and sexually. Shepherd and Calhoun know this well – give the people something to eat, someone to shit on, and let them jerk off into an open wound occasionally – that’s how politics has always been, right back to the goddamned Greeks. Shepherd lets these degenerates have their fun for a little while, before she stands and addresses the throng – a sudden hush falls on the rabble. “Law and order! The government I lead will be a law and order government – none of these filthy degenerates and riff-raff wandering the streets – little bit of common decency amongst the population.” The crowd cheers wildly. One of the putrid motherfuckers lets out a horrific yell, “Let’s keep these filthy apes and cock-sucking hairdressers off our streets!” General rumble of approval from the assembled rodentry – all eyes turn to Shepherd, journalists prime their pens and voice recorders – but Shepherd is a professional, she won’t be caught so easily. “Law and order – the government I lead will be a law and order government – little bit of common decency amongst the people.” Talking points to a tee, no firm commitments – “of course the government I lead will have measures to deal with defective individuals, but everybody will have something coming to them under the government I lead.” Don’t give the bastards an inch – business as usual. The malignant prick down the front feels like he’s won this round – Shepherd’s given him just enough to justify his position, but every shade of doubt in the crowd has been simultaneously entertained. The journalists scribble furiously, getting good copy for their respective angles.

The political game is a spiral staircase of promises and vision – you never know what’s around the corner, but everyone’s pretty sure that they’re still on their way up. It doesn’t really matter what Shepherd says at this juncture – just so long as it doesn’t knock anybody back down the stairs. Of course, some people are too far down the spiral to know where the shit is coming from – sterilise the homeless, no-one cares – well, maybe the sorry eunuchs who get the snip, but they can’t see far enough up the spiral to know who sent down the order. The trick is always to stay one step ahead – that’s the game. Stock-market crash? If you’re high enough up, that sort of thing won’t knock you down – and besides, you can always blame it on the blacks or single-mothers when it comes right down to it. This is the overall method of the Control system – always has been – stay above, stay hidden. No-one can tear down what they can’t see.


From Chapter VI Stump Speech

Book Review

Review: Liber Kaos by Peter J Carroll

Second of Carroll’s major works on chaos magic (first being Liber Null & Psychonaut) LK reads as explication of magical philosophy, physics, and theory with foray into practical applications and forms of experiment. Attempts are made to situate magic within scientific paradigms with some success, but real meat of the matter is tips and tricks for the execution of successful magics. ‘Sleight of mind’ and various gnostic techniques are detailed in clear and concise fashion giving reader good insight into process and practice of chaos.

Denser and drier than Liber Null & Psychonaut, LK is suitable only for more dedicated students. Not the first choice for those merely interested in chaos. Retreads some material, but goes further and deeper opening up philosophy and practice of chaos to more intense scrutiny. Some sections, when scrutinised, do not command confidence (see section on wealth and money), but overall the thing proceeds with good sense and taste.

Appendices also worthwhile additions – ‘Liber KKK’ being most rigorous and practical section of book. Organisational structure of IOT also interesting read for added context of the work of chaos.

Again, this is not the book for the casual reader – go back to Liber Null & Psychonaut I say! But for students or those already on magical paths, a worthy addition to the library.

Book Review

Review: Nova Express by William S Burroughs

Third in Burroughs’ cut/up trilogy, Nova Express takes reader on dark journey to other planets in metallic warfare mode, burning bright insectoid fires for Nova (total planetary annihilation). Only Inspector Lee of Nova Police can prevent catastrophe.

Surreal, horrifying, and terribly funny, the book opens new possibilities of reading potential – not bound by narrative structure or concerns of continuity and logic, Nova Express breaks down literary Control structures and all for the better. Even in obscure passages (cut/ups rendering prose nearly insensible) sense of uneasy meaning is read by subconscious back brain – no mean feat for a writer.

An easy read, the thing shocks the senses and offends available sensibilities, but leaves reader laughing and entertained. Even for those uninitiated in Burroughs’ style I would recommend Nova Express as inroad to cut/up methods and results.

Go, read, expand literary consciousness. Recommend fully as part of counter-Control educational curriculum and also as novel diversion.